From District 7
by Blackbutterfly269
Summary: A one-shot prose of the significant happenings of Johanna Mason's life, from her point of view. Personal details and accounts of the ordeals of her life before and after the games and rebellion. Pretty angsty and mostly Canon save a few minor details. I hope this gives some insight into her character that isn't conveyed in the books and movies. Rated T for mention of torture.


I watch attentively at everything - his stance, posture, grip, swing and everything else. He brings the great axe down with impressive speed and power and slices part way through the oak. He repeats the process, managing to hit the exact same spot again. And again. And again, until the huge tree falls to the ground with a thunderous noise.

The noise doesn't scare me though. I am eager to learn, to practise and to cut trees with my Pa.

* * *

Wrapping paper is a luxury we cannot afford by any means, and so to keep the suspense my parents usually hide the patched-up football or the handful of chipped marbles or whatever the present is somewhere in our three-room shack. Today, however, there is no hiding the axe which my father holds in his strong hands. The grin which exudes anticipation tells me that it's my 7th birthday present.

It is smaller than regular axes, as my seven year old frame is rather small for my age anyway, but I know I will learn to handle it just as Pa handles his. It is obviously not first-hand, nor second hand. It has probably had a long line of owners before myself, but I know it still must have cost a lot. Probably a lot more than we can afford, but I will ensure I make it back by assisting Pa at work. I couldn't have received a better present.

* * *

Pa doesn't allow me in the room, instead I'm supposed to wait outside, but I can't. I hear the screams of my mother's pain and have to leave. My young ears cannot take it. So I dash out of our shack, picking up my treasured axe as I do so. I run to the forest and as the trees become closer, my mother's screams of agony become more distant.

I spend the rest of the day hacking at trees. My hands shake and I am not in the sanest of minds and so my hacks are not of my usual precision. I do not care. It is something to distract my mind. I cannot replay my mother's cries of pain when I'm focusing on the steady rhythm of noise my axe makes when it contacts with the wood.

When I return, my father looks too distraught to be angry at my absconding. He sits at the kitchen table, his head buried in his hands. I can tell by the way his shoulders quiver that he is crying. It's the silent kind of tears, though, like when you're just too sad to stop them from flowing or make any proper noise. This is the first time I can ever remember seeing my Pa cry.

I don't know what I can say or do that will help him, I don't think tickling him will help. That's what he always does to cheer me up. I decide to leave him alone, and not make him more distraught. I walk into my parent's room, and Pa doesn't try to stop me. I wish he had, though.

My mother is lying on her back on the bed, her face is ghostly pale. Cold beads of sweat sit on her forehead and pieces of her hair are stuck to her face. Ma is beautiful, but when I look at her today her lifeless appearance haunts me. Someone has tried to cover her up with sheets, but the blood has seeped right through and stained them. There is so much blood.

A sharp cry pulls my attention away from my dead, bloody mother. In the corner of the small room is the local 'healer'. She is holding a tiny baby, wrapped in torn sheets.

* * *

My father is thinks that I will resent him and blame him for my mother's death. Maybe that's because he does. My brother's arrival steals the love of his life, after all. I certainly don't resent him, in fact I even grow to love him almost instantly. As I gain another member of the family, I lost two others. My mother's death being the most obvious, but I lose my father also. He no longer laughs, smiles or even converses anymore. He eats, sleeps and works. Nothing more. I hate to think of such a thing, but I miss him more than my mother, even though it is her that I am certain never to see again.

* * *

It is my twelfth birthday, but I am not celebrating. I spend the morning walking to the justice building reception, where I take out Terressae. I receive the meagre grain and oil and know that I will be back in a month, if not sooner. There is no present from my father when I return, in his hands or hidden elsewhere in our home. I do not find myself disappointed, I never expected one. I receive a hug and a kiss on my cheek from my brother, but I do not find any comfort in it. I know that it is more for his benefit than mine. He wants reassurance because I've been twelve not twenty-four hours and my name is in the reaping bowl multiple times. He does not want to lose his only living, breathing and functioning relative.

* * *

As I watch as her hands scrape around in the reaping bowl, I count over and over the amount of paper slips in there that read 'Johanna Mason'. I know I will find no comfort in the answer though, and so cut off my train of thought. The capitol representative subtly rearranges the many ruffles of her blouse that have been disturbed by the wind. She inhales deeply before announcing the female tributes name.

"Ferne Thornton".

I exhale sharply with relief. I struggle to justify my elation at the fact that a twelve-year-old girl is sentenced to death, even if it is over myself. She is in my class at school though, and that only makes my guilt worse, especially when I hear her mother's sobs as I evacuate the town square. I feel even more guilt when I realise that I want another six girls to die so that I can reach the age of eighteen without being reaped myself.

* * *

I've been lucky for several years, and I selfishly hope this luck continues at today's reaping. There is another adjustment to another garish blouse. Another deep breathe. And then I hear the name.

My name.

Johanna Mason.

Me.

The tears start to fall before I'm aware of it. They cascade in torrents down my face, and my sobs echo in the silent town square. I've not cried since my mother died eight years ago, yet the one moment when I should appear strong and stoic, I am a mess. As the peacekeepers grab me by the elbows and roughly escort me to the stage, a plan unravels in my mind.

Not to be shared with anyone.

No interviewers.

No mentors.

No allies.

* * *

My first kill. It scares me how efficient and quickly I did it. Without hesitation. In a split second I've permanently changed from a sixteen-year-old girl into a murderer. The brutal act goes on, though. I approach his body, and pry the axe from his dead hands, forcing my eyes to avoid his lifeless ones. I imagine his parents, siblings and friends. I've not only killed this boy, but I've torn apart the lives of so many others.

My second.

My third.

My last?

The cannon goes off, and I stand in shock. I have survived the games. I am a victor.

* * *

"No."

"No?"

"Hell no. I don't care what you promise me. Money? Jewels? A reputation? I don't give a shit. I played your fucking games. I murdered three fucking kids for your bloody entertainment. I have to turn up every single fucking year to watch two more kids die. You can go fuck yourself, Snow. Or pay some other victor a ridiculous amount of money to do it for you. I don't fucking care. I'm out."

"I can see you're decided, Miss Mason."

* * *

I fight. I scream. I scratch and bite. It is futile, but I don't give up although I can see it is only making things worse. I am completely outnumbered. Four hold me down as the others tear off my clothes. I close my eyes and try to ignore the pain. That too, is futile.

I am bruised, bloody, defeated and violated. As they leave my quarters and I lie broken on my bed, I realise that I only survived the Hunger Games. In no way did I ever win anything. I lie here for two days, without moving. I do nothing but pray my heart will stop beating right here and now.

Eventually, when the feelings of having them still on me become too much, I pry myself off the bed and shower. My muscles refuse to work at first, but the hot and steamy water loosens them quickly. I scrub and scrub, opening up the wounds they have left me with, but their presence seems to linger still on my skin. I leave the shower and throw on a plush capital dressing down. I tie the knot effortlessly with one hand and open my door with the other. I wander about aimlessly until I find myself on floor twelve. Perfect.

I open the door and walk in as if it is my own home. I plonk myself down next to a relatively sober Haymitch Abernathy. I grab the bottle of whisky from his hand and take a long, burning swig. My eyes never leave the wall, but out of my peripheral vision I see his eyes take in the bruises and abrasions that litter my pale skin.

His left arm wrestles around behind the cushions for several seconds. It surfaces with a half-empty bottle of vodka. The fancy Capitol stuff. He places this on the table in front of us, before grabbing two used glasses from the same table. He licks his index finger and wipes it around the rim of one glass before handing it to me with a cheerless half-smile.

"Com'on sweetheart, victors are supposed to be civilized."

A haunting laugh escapes my dry throat.

* * *

When I receive the letter that informs me of my family's death, I'm in the presence of most of the victors. We're in the designated mentor room, watching the bloodbath together. Taking comfort in the fact that others too are witnessing the murder of children they have grown to know. It is only the newer victors who really get upset, because they don't understand yet not to get close to the tributes, because the odds are not in favour of them returning. This is my first year mentoring, but I never have that issue. I'm not very good at caring for people. And the ones I do tend to care about, are just as fucked up as me, even if it is in their own unique way. Maybe that's why I get along so well with the other victors.

I choke as I read the last line of the letter.

You decided this.

It's Finnick Odair, the youngest victor ever and the Capitol hunk that is sitting on the stool beside me when I read it. He leans over and a look of recognition crosses his face when he catches sight of the seal. He takes my wrist and leads me into the restroom where he holds back my hair as I throw up. The image of my dear brother being murdered flips my stomach. I did not do what Snow asked of me, and so he executed the last person that I loved. When I cannot bring anything else up, I sit back and lean against the cubicle wall as salty tears stream down my cheeks. All I can think about is how I could have prevented it all if I'd just done as he'd asked. The guilt overwhelms me.

"You tell anyone about this, Odair, and I'll take a fucking axe to that pretty face of yours."

"I believe you," He laughs hollowly as he sits down beside me.

* * *

"Johanna Mason."

I want to make a statement, to the Capitol and to the people of Panem, but now is not the time. I will receive no support from my district people, as the increased number of peacekeepers and the floggings and executions that come with them have scared them into obedient silence. I'll just have to wait until we get to the Capitol and we start the whole mess again.

* * *

As we leave Seven and head towards the Capitol I internally repeat the plan over in my head, again and again. I sit next to Blight, but we don't dare speak of it, aware of the listening Capitol. I don't hate Katniss Everdeen by any means, if anything I like her. I am not willing to die for her, though. I am prepared to die for the rebellion, for the takedown of the Capitol, and I know that she is essential for that to happen. So I will die if I have to, and trust that she follows through. I do like her, I just resent her slightly. I resent that the people she loves are still alive. I resent that the Capitol has not destroyed her. Not that I want anyone to have to endure that, I just hate that I had to. But the Snow and the Capitol will get its comeuppance.

* * *

"Well, Caesar, I was led to believe that after my games, the deal was that I get to live the rest of my life in peace as long as I show up every year to watch another set of kids die. But no, now I have to do the whole fucking thing again! I mean, the gamemakers could never have anticipated such a strong attachment between us victors and the people of the Capitol, but surely they wouldn't put the Capitol people through such an ordeal? There must be something that can be done?" I finish, looking into the audience who erupts in a chorus of chants and cheers.

* * *

It's happening. As we stand in the arena, I know it's only a matter of time. I keep Katniss close, aware of the plan. She's oblivious, which is necessary but only makes this more dangerous.

* * *

They're taking me. I knew it was a possibility but I never thought it through. Now though, all that I can think of is the pain that lies in store for me. I'm determined not to divulge anything, but I can only wonder how I'll fare when it really begins.

* * *

My screams of anguish mingle with the ones from next door, and soon, even for myself, it becomes impossible to distinguish between them. I vaguely wonder what they could be doing to Peeta at that moment, before I realise I have my own torture to worry about.

Two menacing peacekeepers drag me down one corridor, then another, and another. They all look the same – with cold, concrete flooring and metal panelling on the walls. There are no windows, and the only source of light is the dim strips of lighting attached to the ceiling. Eventually after countless corridors, they deposit me in a room. It is the same as all the others I have been in, and it is empty save for a large metal cylinder that is connected to the far walls by pipes. I wait for hours, not moving from the original position that they left me in on the floor. Finally, two peacekeepers return – I can vaguely recognise that they are not the ones who took me here – and pick me up roughly at my elbows. I don't fight anymore – I realize how futile it was to even try in the first instance.

One holds me as the other opens up the cylinder and they both shove me in forcefully. I lie there for several minutes, wondering what pain lies in store for me. I hear the sound of rushing water, and the cylinder starts to fill. The water is freezing and starts to rise quickly. I stand and wonder at what level it will stop.

It doesn't. It keeps rising until I'm clambering up the sides to the top, gasping for air. My face pressed against the ceiling trying to take in as much precious air as possible before it leaves. When it does, it doesn't take long at all for my lungs to begin to burn. Just when I think this pain may be the most horrible, a sudden surge of electricity passes through the water and into me.

The voltage rushes through me, causing me a pain so unique and horrendous that I wish I had been killed in the games. I thrash around involuntarily and through the pain I feel my heart beat erratically.

When the black dots begin to cloud my vision, the water depth lowers to chest level. I splutter as I try to expel the water I had taken in and inhale the air at the same time. Just as my breathing becomes less desperate, I feel the water begin to rise again. Dread fills me in anticipation for the worst pain I'll ever experience.

They repeat it again and again until I lose count.

* * *

I sit in the corner with my eyes fixed on the door, barely blinking, as usual. When it opens, dread fills me like water filled that tank. A single peacekeeper walks in, with an object in his right hand. He kneels down beside me and although I flinch, I don't cower away.

"You don't have to do this. Just tell us everything you know about Katniss Everdeen and the rebellion."

"Go to hell."

He clearly isn't expecting me to suddenly divulge the intimacies of the rebellion, because all he does is sigh as if I'm boring him. His free hand abruptly pushes my now bald head into the wall, and I feel blood trickle from my temple. I see that his right hand holds a syringe which he places to my neck and releases its contents into a vein.

It takes mere minutes for the world to fall into darkness. It takes what feels like forever for the darkness to lift and when it does, my brother stands before me. The warmth that I remember from his hazel eyes is gone, and instead they have a cold and unforgiving quality. Have they killed me? A twisted sense of excitement fills me but it doesn't last long.

"You're a disgrace. What kind of person murders their own brother? If you had just stopped being such an arrogant, self-centred and inconsiderate bitch for a minute and done what he'd asked – I'd still be alive. It's your fault! You never could do anything right. Could never make Pa happy. Could never be decent person. Could never keep me safe!

And now you'll single-handedly ruin the rebellion. You're so weak. I know that you think about giving it up! About telling them in hopes of them putting a bullet in your head. You're disgusting!"

"But I-"

"Oh shut up, Johanna!" Finnick appears as if from nowhere.

"You have an excuse for everything. Well, there's no excuse for your weakness. You're a fucking mess and it's nobody's fault but your own. I can't believe you even thought about divulging details about the rebellion. No, wait. I can't believe we even trusted such a fucking pathetic excuse for a human with the information in the first place. You deserve everything you're getting."

"I've not told-"

"Oh, but you will," Katniss sneers. "I know you're thinking about it – it won't be long until you give in to your pathetic thoughts. I always knew you were a deceitful, conceited and malicious wretch – but a traitor? Even for you that's disgraceful – although I can't say I'm surprised. The whole uprising – the stand against the capitol and its injustices – compromised because of you."

I squeeze me eyes closed, hoping to block it all out. But the figures and the voices manage to get behind my eyelids and into my head. Next up is Haymitch and Blight – shouting verbal assaults.

"What a waste of space. And to think some idiot trusted her with the secrets of the uprising? Wish she'd just done us all a favour and died in the quell. In fact, one better – died in her own games. She only won it by manipulating everyone – well, that is what she does best, isn't it?"

"I know. She couldn't even keep me alive in the games. Got herself out though - what a selfish bitch. Guess she's getting her comeuppance now though, eh, Abernathy? She deserves every punch, every kick, every electrocution she gets. Well, Mason, next time you feel that current run through you – multiply the pain by a hundred and think of how I felt hitting that force field in the arena. You may as well have pushed me into it."

"No! I didn't mean-" But they disappear before I finish and in their place stands the one person I don't think I can cope seeing.

"I never thought my daughter would turn into such a sorry excuse for a person. Your mother didn't die giving life to your brother just for you to let him die because of your own selfishness! You didn't even stay with her for the delivery. My own daughter abandoned us in our time of need! It's your fault she died. It's your fault I was the left way I was. It's your fault that your brother was murdered. And now, it'll be your fault if the rebellion fails."

It takes days for the drug to wear off. Even after I regain consciousness – my sleep is plagued with everyone I know shouting obscenities at me. They're so vivid that it's hard to distinguish them from reality and I become muddled in what was actually said to me and what the drug is responsible for. I begin to believe it and it is worse than any physical pain they could put me through.

That is until I return to the electrocution cylinder.

* * *

An abrupt shake wakes me from my restless slumber. It isn't aggressive though – it's hurried yet gentle. I open my eyes to Gale Hawthorne – 'cousin' to Katniss Everdeen. I wonder if they could have drugged me again while I was sleeping.

But no, his voice is soothing. It's telling me that it's okay and that they've come for me. It isn't haunting – it's drowned out in places by the sound of explosions. I don't know what to do – the hope that this is real fills me but at the very same time I know that realistically it's more than likely another mind game by the Capitol.

So I just look at him – taking in his stormy grey eyes and the dark hair that falls into them. He tells me that he's going to lift me and when he moves towards me I don't resist. In fact, I cling to him. We leave the room and move fast through the corridors, Gale – or Capitol-synthesized hallucinatory Gale – occasionally speaking into a contraption attached to his wrist. He's speaking to me softly but I don't register his words – terrified in case they become hostile.

We come to a cross-section at the end of a corridor and turn right. We get about fifteen yards before the bullets start to fire. The first round misses, and Gale begins to run, unable to return fire with me in his arms. He hunches over, as though to protect me from the fire. We reach the end if the corridor unscathed, but as we turn a single bullet pierces the back of Gale's shoulder. He grunts but doesn't slow, his mouth pressed into a firm line – no longer spouting soft tones.

We continue up several flights of stairs before we reach the roof where a hovercraft appears. Gale holds me in one arm and grips to the rope with the other. Even in the hovercraft when men and women in scrubs try to pry us apart, I cling to him.

* * *

I'm not addicted to morphling – I just like the sensation. It slows down the thoughts in my head. It stops the flashbacks. It doesn't help me distinguish my hallucinations from the truth - but it takes me to a place where that doesn't even matter. Even if I do have a slight dependency on morphling – which I'm not confessing to – would it really matter? Haymitch has a 'slight dependency' on alcohol but he still functions – still participates in the uprising even if it is from behind the scenes.

* * *

"Sorry about the morphling."

"Don't be. It had to happen eventually," I say as I busy my shaking hands by running them through my hair. It's thin but the nutrients they pumped into me in the hospital has made it grow rapidly. It reaches just past my shoulders now. I try to tie it away from my face but my trembling hands cause me to drops bits and pieces everywhere.

"Come here," Katniss says, sitting on the edge of the bed and throwing a pillow at her feet.

"You can't be serious? Do you want to stay up all night gossiping about boys and painting each other's nails as well?" I retort.

"Only if we can make up dance routines too."

I roll my eyes but still cross the room and sit cross-legged on the pillow on the floor in front of her. I'm glad I'm facing away from her as a blush creeps up my face in embarrassment – withdrawal from the morphling has caused excessive sweating and the hair at the nape of my neck is soaked with cold perspiration. Katniss doesn't say anything, just busies her fingers in my hair until she secures the braid.

"Thanks"

"You're good, though my ribs are still pretty done – could we take a rain-check on the dancing?"

"Fuck off."

* * *

Of everything they could have put in the fucking simulation. Water. I keep replaying the scene in my head. I see myself just standing there in absolute terror and I'm screaming at me to just do something – but I don't. And now I'm not going to the capitol. I don't get to fight. I don't get to be part of the rebellion.

I can't help but think that I am weak. That I am pathetic. That I am a sorry excuse for a human.

So I go to the only place that can stop me from thinking. The hospital morphling supply.

It's Haymitch that comes to me in the hospital after I've overdosed on morphling.

"You have to stop. I know you're upset about not getting to fight but nearly topping yourself isn't helping anything. It's been months since you got out of the capitol – no one expects you to be peachy but you shouldn't still be drugging yourself up."

"No!" I scream. "You're supposed to understand! You're the fucking drunk! And I'm not upset, I'm pissed off. At you, at Coin, at this whole fucking thing. You know what, just tell me whatever it was you came to tell me and leave. And don't come back."

"That was all, Joha-"

"Don't bullshit me, Abernathy. The nurse said you had to 'break some news' so just get it over with." Haymitch doesn't say anything, he just sighs as if trying to figure out his next words.

"What? Is Katniss dead? Has it failed? Just tell me you fuckin-"

"Finnick's dead." He says it bluntly in efforts to shut me up but I can see he regrets his lack of sensitivity as soon as he's said it.

"Oh."

* * *

I don't really want another game. I don't actually want another set of children to suffer and die. But I'm bitter – so very bitter. So I vote yes and make a remark about Snow's grandchild. I resent this child that I've never met because of her privileged, painless life but I do not hate her. No enough to truly want to condemn her to what I went through. But I'm clouded by bitterness – so I do. And I hate myself a little more.

* * *

I put so much anticipation onto today. Snow's 'Death Day'. I think that I'll feel better seeing the man that took so much from me die – but when he does die I realise that I don't. I still felt empty. Lonely. Miserable. Except now I have nothing to look forward to. I don't have anything to accomplish. There is nothing left for me: no need for survival. No rebellion. No execution.

Death seems like a wonderful option at this moment. So as I push my way through the crowd that is in a state of chaos at Coins death, I think of the most efficient way to end it all. My mind becomes so frenzied with the concept of death and how to reach it that I begin to panic. My heart races, my breathing becomes laboured and I'm frantically pushing people out of my way.

I run to the accommodations that I've been provided with and once inside begin searching for any method of suicide. The medicine cabinet is empty – Haymitch ensured that. There is no toxic cleaning chemicals as I have never bothered to clean the place. The only wire I find is from the phone and it's not long enough nor strong enough to form a noose.

Tears are streaming down my face in desperation as I run out of the apartment. It takes me mere seconds to come to my next strategy. I barge through the double doors that lead to the stairwell and race upwards. My desperation is so acute I don't even look at the stairs I climb two at a time, causing me to slip and stumble. I pull open the door to the roof and race out.

I have to take a run-and-jump at the ledge before I can haul myself up onto it. The adrenaline that pumps through my veins prevents me from feeling pain from the abrasions on my knees I sustain in the process. I stand up on the narrow ledge, and with 20+ stories below me and the open sky above me – I've never felt so free. Looking out over the capitol that was once my prison, I take a moment to savour the freedom.

I know that I've never been more certain of anything in my life – and that's why I step of the ledge.

I've barely began to fall when something strong latches on to my arm. It holds me above the ground that I'm so desperate to meet. As I suspend, I look up to see the stormy grey eyes of Gale Hawthorne who is clutching my arm.

"Let go," I whine in a pathetic tone.

"Not a chance."

And he begins to haul me up despite my thrashing around. I alternate between screaming obscenities at him and begging him to just let go. As he pulls me back over the ledge we both fall to the roof floor, I on top of him. I start to scramble up again, determined to carry out what I came here to do but he is too quick. He snatches my arm and rolls over, pinning me to the ground.

As he lies on top of me, I notice his laboured breathing and the beads of sweat that lie on his temple. I realise that it's from following me from the execution to the roof.

"What's your deal? Just let me go," I plead.

His voice is firm, monotonous and yet somehow full of emotion, "No."

* * *

"You absolute bastard! How could you do this to me?! I fucking hate you!"

All he does is shush me, not making a single complaint at how tightly I hold his hand as I lie on the bed.

"You'll be okay, Jo. You're almost done – Just one more push. Are you sure you don't want even a little dose of morphling?"

"No. Just get this fucking thing out of me!" I scream at the healer.

It takes another fifteen minutes before I give birth to my son. And when he wraps his tiny little hand around my pinkie, I know that it was worth it – not just the delivery, but all the pain I've experienced in my whole life. I know that I'd endure it all over again just to feel his soft little grip on my finger.

"Gale, I don't understand how we could have made something so beautiful. I just – I mean, he's perfect."

"I know. Let's just hope he doesn't get your insolent attitude and severe disregard for standard decorum."

"I'm happy as long as he doesn't get your arrogance and audacious sense of humour."

"I love you."

"Ditto."

* * *

A/N: Hope you liked this drabble-thingy, the vast majority of it is cannon, although I did skip over the bits that were covered in the books and films to save any repetitiveness. I'm not sure whether to continue it or not, there are places to expand upon but that depends I guess. If possible please review to let me know what you think and if I should continue. I hope I got Johanna right, she's one of my fave characters.

May the odds be ever in your favour ~ BlackButterfly269


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